


Loved You For A Thousand Years

by Red_evil_twist



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drama, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Messiah Wars timeline, Post-Apocalypse, Wade deserves better, failed suicide attempts, no fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 11:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15580947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_evil_twist/pseuds/Red_evil_twist
Summary: Eight hundred years is an awful long time. Especially when the company in which you’re trapped consists only of yourself.But he's fine. Really. He’s seen worse, right?Welcome to the bright future!





	Loved You For A Thousand Years

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Loved You For A Thousand Years](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15278814) by [Red_evil_twist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_evil_twist/pseuds/Red_evil_twist). 



> 1)The title is a line from Christina Perri's song called "A Thousand Years"
> 
> 2)Yeah, it's a translation of my own fic.  
> All hail to amazing [Quakey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quak3y/pseuds/Quakey) for doing the beta-reading to this translation!

Eight hundred years... is an awful long time. Especially when the company in which you’re trapped consists only of yourself.

 _Especially_ when you're Deadpool.

But he's fine. Really. He’s seen worse, right? So he says, to all of them:

"Hey, hey, I'm fine! The world is a piece of cake, am I right? Everything is peachy! Everything is cool!"

His guests react to this differently.

Terry looks at him with pity and concern, frowning her pretty little forehead. On the good days, Wade can even remember how her voice used to sound; it seems strange, to forget such a voice, but he thinks his memory misses slightly on tone and timbre. He wishes he could hear her once more in person.

Nessa shrugs indifferently. Less and less she visits him through the years. Maybe it’s because they have nothing to say to each other anymore, and Wade tries (and fails) to determine what shade of blue her skin used to be. It wasn’t even in a “past life” that he left Nessa – it was _two_ lives and a whole era ago.

Shikla arches an eyebrow in clear disdain. Her visits usually mean that his subconscious once again has decided to send Wade on a fun trip to all the "You-Are-Just-Useless-Shit-And-Suck-At-Everything" wonderful destinations. However, she’s still so insanely beautiful when she’s angry, so it’s still worth it to summon her here.

Bea Arthur reads  something in the corner and doesn’t show any interest in him. First time when that happened, he thought – _wait, Bea Arthur? Have I been stuck here for too long?_ Then he got used to it. Sometimes he retells the episodes of the _Golden Girls_ to her and asks her how she can be such a majestic woman  and why no one in this useless future appreciates iconic TV shows any more.

Nate frowns at him, much more grimly than Terry. He touches Wade’s face with his human hand and looks him in the eyes, leaning closer.

"Hey," Wade says cheerfully. “No homo, mate! You're not going to kiss me or something, are you?”

Nate's thumb is stroking his cheekbone. (It's strange that Wade remembers _that_ feeling so well, he's not sure if it took place in reality – he's not sure of anything now. Why does it feel so nice, anyway?...)

"You're losing it, Wade. It's time for you to get out of here.”

He isn’t losing anything, thank you very much. He never loses anything. And – hey, Nate, what would we do without your priceless advice! As if he hasn't been trying. As if he likes it so much here, to rot in this concrete coffin. But Nate likes to pretend he knows better than everyone else around him.

The smug bastard.

Wade opens his eyes. The freezer is quiet and empty. There is no one here. For how long now? It’s been – two hundred, three hundred, six hundred years?

Sometimes it occurs to him that everyone he knew must be dead now, except, maybe, good old Logan. Some were already dead by the time he got into this fucking freezer.

"I'm fine," he repeats into the void and laughs. "I'm just fine, ladies and gentlemen. Listen, it’s better for me than for all of you out there. I'm still alive, huh? What a joke! A killing one, really! Deadpool is the one _who_ _outlived them all_! Gee, that’ll be the title of my autobiography, I'll publish a book and make millions. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? There’ll be an awesome movie based on my wonderful memoir !”

Maybe one day he will die too. If he’s lucky. If he doesn’t go completely crazy before that happens.  
 

( _Oh, look, another good joke! He’s definitely on a roll today, man.)_

Or maybe he’s already dead – and, like all the other most important things in his life, he hasn’t even _noticed_. He wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, to be fair. He wouldn’t be surprised at all.

 

***

“... and then – DANG! – his head falls off, and, of course, there’s blood everywhere, and I'm like, ‘Dude, you forgot one thing there. Namely, that I’m…”

Wade pauses. Blinks a couple of times. Well, he knew that it would happen eventually: he gets distracted just for a split second and loses his train of thought immediately. And Nate, of course, is the one to blame, him and his hand, which is now absent-mindedly rubbing Wade’s belly. Nate probably thinks that any creature that has landed with its head on his lap automatically turns into a cat. Do they even have cats in his dark, dystopian future?

"No," Nate says, not stopping the rubbing. “And cats don’t usually try to talk and gesticulate simultaneously. You nearly knocked the book out of my hands. Twice.”

“Aw, come on, I was just checking out your reflexes! And anyway, don’t tell me you’ve actually been reading it. _Moby Dick_ , really? Couldn’t you find anything more boring than that?”

This is weird. Very weird. And Wade can tell you a couple of really weird stories: he fought with aliens, mutants, other mercenaries, super-villains and superheroes alike, he can teleport (well, technically it's _Nate's_ ability, he’s just tagging along because of their common DNA, but still...) and has already visited several alternative dimensions. He’s aware of some stuff like time travel and all the other crazy shit that happens in this world constantly.

And yet, all of that is nothing in comparison to what is happening to him right now.

He lies on his back without his mask, comfortably nestled in Nate's lap, rambling about everything that comes to mind, and Nate – annoyingly calm, as always – somehow manages to actually _listen_. He doesn’t tell him to shut up, doesn’t demand he leave him alone. He only reads his fucking book and, damn it, rubs his belly, as if there’s nothing wrong with that (and there isn’t).

Wade doesn’t have to kill anyone, doesn’t have to hunt anyone down and fight them. No one casts him out and no one shies from his appearance on the streets, even if he walks in civilian clothes. The evenings on Providence are terribly quiet. And boring.

And peaceful.

Wade closes his eyes. Deep in his heart he’s almost ready to admit that he actually likes it here. It’s beginning to bother him. A little. You can’t let you guard down. You can’t allow local hippies to infect you with all their soft-headed peace propaganda. It doesn’t work like this. It won’t last. All of this will come to an end eventually, sooner or later – just like all the other seemingly good ideas come to an end; there will be violence, blood and destruction. And, probably, explosions. He’s pretty sure that a couple of big "ka-booms" in this story are simply inevitable.

But for now... for now it seems to be working. Cable’s little, fragile paradise keeps afloat, in contradiction to all expectations. Nate knows what he's doing… usually knows.

Nate pulls the book aside to properly look at his face. Wade must have been silent for too long now.

“What’s on your mind?”

And he asks it as if he really wants to know. Wade reaches out with his hand to touch the scars around Nate’s right eye with his fingertips. Just because he can.

Because, let's admit it, it's simply pleasant to touch this stupid wannabe-messiah.

"Nothing," he replies. “Or maybe everything at once. I'm bored as hell. And I don’t even have a job – by the way, thanks a lot for that, asshole. I want to punch somebody in the face, but your small, feeble minions can’t even give me a proper _reason_ to do it.”

Nate puts the book on the couch. His expression shifts slightly, the way it always shifts when he's about to drag someone along on his next grand scheme. Wade is perfectly aware of all his little tricks now.

"Actually," Nate says with that smooth, silky voice of his, which lures people to trust him by instinct the second they hear it; Wade kicks himself in the shin mentally and still falls for it nevertheless every fucking time. “I might have a perfect job for you. What do you think about helping some rebels establish social justice in a small european country?”

Wade finds himself grinning. Nate, the old fox, always knows how to cheer him up. He sits up so abruptly that he almost bumps Nate’s nose with his forehead.

“What, you need me to get rid of some psycho, evil dictator? _Viva la Resistance_ and all that, is that right?”

Nate nods.

"Something like that," and before Wade manages to open his mouth, he adds seriously, "No killing."

Oh. Deadpool doesn’t hear that often. 

“Pff! You always spoil my fun,” he complains. "But you'll pay me, right?" 

“Sure.”

Wade pretends that this is what ultimately convinces him.

"Okie-dokie, Priscilla! Sign me up, then, I’m ready to pack my things!”

The truth is, he would do it for _free_. One word from Nate, one request, and he will go wherever he says, and he will do whatever he says, and he won’t even kill anyone along the way unless it’s completely necessary. It’s the way things work now.

(The truth is, he believes in Nate too much. He wants Nate to succeed in whatever he’s doing. And he wants to be a _part_ of it, too.)

 

There’s no reason to remember this evening as something special. There’s no reason to think of it now. Providence is gone. As well as the rest of the world.

Nate, on the other hand... Wade is not so sure. No one can know for sure when it comes to Nate, right?

 

***

Stryfe holds him by the throat effortlessly. Almost affectionately. As if he’s holding a pet.

That, apparently, on some days he wishes to strangle, and only the fact that there are no other pets like him nearby prevent him from doing it. These Summers guys and their funny ways of demonstrating affection. Everything about them is just so _messed up_ , you know.

"Ghah," Wade says. “Boss. Can we maybe have different foreplay this evening?”

Stryfe just smirks lazily. He has Nate's smirk and Nate's face. And if Wade squints at him a little, if he doesn’t look too closely into his eyes, then he can imagine...

"You tried to escape," Stryfe informs him. "Which was a pretty ineffective attempt, if you ask me. Even for you.”

These Summers guys and their tendency for stating the obvious out loud. Wade goes limp in his grasp, hanging like a sack of potatoes, legs dangling over the floor. Maybe his neck will break if he finds the right angle. Not that it would be a serious problem for him, but a broken neck is as good an excuse as any to take a nap right in the middle of this exciting conversation.

Maybe he will dream of someone more interesting. Like Terry. Or Nessa. Or Death.

(Or... well, it doesn’t matter, really. He’s not going to dream about _him_. After all, he's not a silly teenage girl, no sir, most of the time he’s not.)

"I was checking out your reflexes," Wade mumbles, when the miracle doesn’t happen. “And anyway... has anyone ever told you that your little pet mercenary needs to go for a walk from time to time? I'm bored, man. Don’t you want me to kill someone else for you, huh?”

Stryfe squeezes his fingers a little harder, hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to let him pass out. At least he’s still smirking – that’s a good sign. Amusing evil dictators is always safer than angering them, truly.

"Maybe I'd better lock you up again in that hole where you came from. For another thousand years.”

Wade smiles like a madman.

Or not just _like_.

"Hey, it was an _awesome_ hole, boss! So spacious! You know, I even had arranged - _ghhr_ – some truly spectacular parties there, and – ah, you can put me on the floor any time now, a little air would be –”

Stryfe tosses him into the wall. So predictable. Wade closes his eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Stryfe wipes his palm on the armor fastidiously. Wade doesn’t get up immediately, though: the mere thought of returning to the freezer twists the remains of his decaying entrails into an unpleasant knot. And Stryfe knows that, so he doesn’t need to repeat his threat twice.

"Or maybe," he continues matter-of-factly, walking off to the balcony, "I should have let you escape. After all, it’s not like there would be any place to hide now.”

Wade swallows thickly, rubbing his neck and tasting blood and bile in his mouth – he hit the wall with his head pretty badly. From where he sits on the floor, he can see the dead, sunless sky outside the balcony. And he knows that beyond the iron city erected by Apocalypse the same dead land extends in all directions. No plants, no animals, not even a cheap diner there. There’s only dust, sand and radiation. And some acid rain.

_Oh, brave new world. Welcome to the bright future._

He climbs to his feet and limps to – to Stryfe, of course, where else would he go. Without his stupid helmet, standing like this, from the back, he reminds him... of the past.

Of that time when Wade once thought that maybe, _maybe_ this world had a hope. Maybe one person – and those whom he would convince to join him – would be enough to change something.

Wade looks at the white head in front of him wistfully – the hair is a little longer than it should be, but it’s okay, he can imagine, he has become _incredibly_ good at this imagination shit in the last few centuries – and suddenly realizes: he doesn’t even want to joke.

If anyone asks, everything is still _peachy._

 

***

At first he tries to get out. After all, he thinks, it can’t be _that_ difficult, can it? One small building crushed atop of it is not enough to keep the best mercenary in the world locked up in a damn freezer!

Shooting at the walls and at the ceiling results in nothing except that his cartridges run out. Some bullets ricochet straight into him. and rubble begins to fall dangerously from the ceiling. Attempts to dig through or make an exit with his bare hands also end in nothing: the shitty freezer is tough as hell. The grenade – when he finally loses his patience – only makes the far corner of the vault collapse, which isn’t helpful at all. If anything, it makes the space where he’s locked even smaller.

Then he – doesn’t give up, no, Deadpool _never_ gives up, you can ask anyone! – just slows down a little. Mostly he tries to do at least _something_ to keep himself busy.

Thank goodness he’s already crazy; the prospect of losing his mind doesn’t frighten him too much. What's there to lose, if he's honest?

He tells stories to himself and laughs at them sincerely.

He sings all the popular hits of the nineties and the two thousands. Eighties. Seventies – all that he can remember.

He makes up some imaginary scripts for TV shows, which he totally plans on sending right to fucking Hollywood as soon as he gets out. Even if fucking Hollywood will cease to exist by that time: there’s no way they can die without seeing his true genius first.

He talks to his ghosts and to himself. As well as to the comics writers: _Seriously, guys, even I could’ve come up with a better plot than this one! Don’t you think this epic crossover would be much more entertaining if I had – well, you know, had some more time **out there**? Come on, I’d make this whole story about that messiah girl waaay more juicy!_

He fights angrily with people he had killed once, makes peace with those whom he left not in the best of terms, forgives all his enemies and all the idiots who infested his life. Then he goes through the list again and repeats his actions vice versa.

He plays himself in monopoly, checkers, chess and even cards; it turns out pieces of rubble and the contents of his belt pouches can become literally _anything_ with a good bit of imagination.

He fantasizes about the all the hotties from the X-Men and the Avengers. His brain eventually develops its own private collection of porn for daily use.

( _Female_ hotties are replaced by _male_ ones more and more often the longer he’s here. Fewer and fewer  of his old beliefs have power over him these days.)

Some of his fantasies, however, are not so compliant. Domino, for example, tells him right away, merciless as ever: “Are you high or what? Jesus, Wilson. Pull yourself together.” And rolls her eyes in annoyance when he grins meaningfully, as if he’s heard a dirty joke. Bad imaginary Domino. Always so mean.

Nate – he doesn’t go there for a while. Somehow it’s much easier to imagine any crazy scenario with any other person (or creature – he is not particularly picky, you know) than just simple sex with him. Not because he’s never thought about it before – he _has_ thought, oh honey, he has.

It's just... it's _Nate_. Every time he and Wade get to something interesting in his fantasies, Nate receives a phone call – another urgent matter just came up, of course. Or they are being attacked by aliens. Or the time stream collapses, and only Nate can fix it. Or – well, it doesn’t matter, something _always_ comes up. Nate _always_ has to save the world. Nate’s got his Priorities, and Wade is not one of them, for sure.

"You’re wrong," says Nate. Softly. This voice Nate saves for the ones closest to him – or at least Wade wants to think so. “There was a time when you were also one of my priorities, and you know it. A long, long time ago.”

"But I fucked it up." Wade nods, smiling wryly. “Yeah. And then _you_ fucked it up, too. So tell me, Priscilla, why are we both so good at screwing things up so badly?

Nate doesn’t reply, looking at his hands and seemingly lost in his thoughts. Wade shifts in his place to sit next to him, leaning his back against the wall.

"And most importantly," he continues, "we’dalmost made up after all that bullshit, hadn’t we? Shook hands and everything. And then our great team-up was canceled for commercial reasons, and you just couldn’t resist once again sacrificing yourself in the process. Fucking Jesus-wannabe, that’s who you are. Gone with a big explosion, though. A nice way to go, sure, I’d like to go that way myself. It’s just, you’re always like this: first you die, and then it turns out that you were actually alive and just wandering somewhere for all that time without so much as a phone call. I fucking hate it when you do that, you know?”

"I know," Nate says. And, dammit, _smiles_ at him, with that familiar little smile that makes something tickle warmly inside Wade’s stomach. Maybe it’s parasites or worms that have occupied his guts. "But it's still better than actually dying for good, right?"

Wade tries to hit him in the shoulder. His fist goes right through. He swears under his breath.

 _Right_ , he thinks grimly. But he doesn’t say it. Even here, in complete silence and solitude, he isn’t going to say it out loud. Nate doesn’t need to hear it. Neither does he.

"You should’ve taken me to the future with you. I would’ve gone. I would’ve kicked ass in the future just as awesomely as I do in the present. I mean, it’s ‘in the past’ now, probably? What year is it?”

"Dude," says a voice from another corner, which doesn’t belong to Nate. "We’re all just the products of your sick imagination here. How do we know what year it is, if you don’t know it yourself?”

Wade doesn’t bother looking at him. Deadpool #2 is sitting there (he insists on calling himself _Deadpool Alpha_ – but, no thanks, even Wade is not so off the reels yet), and they don’t get along with each other very well. Deadpool #2 turned out to be too smart and too smug for his liking.

Nate looks at Deadpool #2 with confusion, as if he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on here, but isn’t sure whether he really wants to ask. Sometimes he gets this funny look on his face whenever he tries to understand what’s going on in Wade's mind. Aw, these telepaths. Always want to know everything, don’t they?

When he’s not busy with some soul-baring conversations, wet fantasies and hallucinations, Wade tries to do something that will help him pass out for a while. Or pass _away_ , for that matter. He grows very, _very_ tired of sitting in this coffin.

Sometimes he fights with Deadpool #2 – to find himself hacked to pieces with his own katana later. The blades are getting dull as time passes. He has to stitch up his suit again and again: the fabric of the suit is pretty worn out.

The healing factor is wearing out, too. The cut pieces of his skin no longer grow again. His injuries don’t recover. His right eye goes blind and almost falls out of the orbit one day. Wade puts it back in.

He doesn’t bother counting time anymore. All the walls, the floor and the ceiling of the freezer are covered with his markings, and there already wasn’t any place left for them in the first century.

Maybe he really is  dead now. Maybe he’s stuck forever in his personal and very private kind of hell.

Or he’s in a dream from which he can’t wake up willingly. An everlasting nightmare where no one dies. Except for himself. And common sense, apparently.

Or _maybe_ he’ll manage to get out one morning – and there will be some beautiful, happy world outside, built by Nate and his messiah girl. And there will be mutants, and people, and all sorts of freaks like him, and – pizza, God, he misses pizza so much. And Taco Bell. And chimichangas. And _television_.

Providence, edition #2, new and improved . Extended to the whole world. Wade would like to see that.

 

Except for when he finally gets out, the future crushes all his hopes at once. He should have expected it, really, given that it was _him_ with those hopes so stupid.

The universe, apparently, just _loves_ to fuck with him all the time.

 

***

Wade lies in the dark, without even trying to pretend he’s watching TV, quietly muttering something in the background. In the blue light of the screen the room seems to be frozen in time. As if someone put the whole world on pause – and tonight Wade uses this pause to _think_.

And, of course, it’s in exactly this moment that Nate suddenly remembers his existence.

"Wade?"

Of course he has to seek him out _now_. He's always busy when Wade wants to spend some quality time with his best buddy, but the moment Wade chooses to leave him alone and to sit in his room for a while, hoping for a few hours of silence and solitude – just like that, Nate's right there. He’s probably afraid that without his supervision Wade will go completely bananas and start wreaking havoc on civilians on his pretty little island, or something like that.

Nate turns on the light and walks into the room. He looks at him appraisingly, crossing his arms over his chest. Wade squints at him through the mask.

“Well? Need something, Priscilla? Bad boy Deadpool did something awful again and Daddy Cable came to wave a finger?”

Nate sighs. He comes closer to sit down on the couch next to him – Wade moves away almost automatically, freeing up some space. He looks tired: now, with all the Providence business and recently liberated Rumekistan, there aren’t many chances for him to get a proper rest. Fun fact, Wade thinks to himself. It’s only around him and Irene that Nate allows himself to show some actual human weakness.

"Wade... did something happen? You've been very quiet  today.”

In fact, he seems so utterly exhausted that Wade almost offers him a friendly massage – _no, no, not this damn beach fantasy again!_ – but catches himself just in time to stop it.

"Don’t you need to go rule your fresh, new country, Mr. President? Or do any other super important things right now? No?”

Nate turns to him, patient as a rock. Sometimes Wade terribly wants to punch him.

And sometimes he wants... something else. Not that he is going to admit it.

“I’m finished with business matters for today. And it's been a very, very long day, Wade, so – I'd appreciate it if you just said what's going on without making me guess your thoughts.”

Wade lowers his head on the back of the the couch, studying the ceiling. He can, of course, tell him to go to hell with his fake concern. There’s even a decent chance that Nate will really leave then. Only now, when he’s sitting so damn close, Wade somehow doesn’t really want him to leave so badly.

"When were you gonna tell me, old buddy?" he asks instead. “About who exactly was my mysterious employer for the last couple of jobs. You know, the one who – totally by accident, of course – wanted me to steal a _gravimetric shield_ and technology suspiciously resembling the electronic version of fucking _telepathy_ , eh?”

He half expects Nate to deny it, to insist that he had nothing to do with any of it and that it was nothing more than a big happy coincidence.

But he only smiles at him tiredly with the corner of his mouth: "So you’ve figured it out."

"I'm not a complete idiot, Nate. Contrary to the rumors. And I don’t very much like being manipulated.”

“I know.”

They remain silent for a while. Then Nate also leans back.

"I didn’t want to deprive you of your independence, that's all. You have your own... peculiar definition of honor, and I didn’t want to hurt your pride.”

Of course he didn’t, Wade thinks bitterly. Of course. He supposes that if Nate could, he would put him on a leash and let him bark only at those who would present a serious threat to his great mission.

He wonders if some day Nate will stop trying to manipulate him. Probably not. Wade really tries to stay mad at him for this one, but feels only a vague annoyance. Nate is just _Nate_. He manipulates everyone. Sooner or later you start to get used to it. Which, however, doesn’t mean that Wade should _like_ it.

"Why go to so much trouble?" he asks blatantly, studying his face with suspicion. "Why did you even bother with my fragile little pride and everything else? What could you possibly gain?”

"Perhaps, the question is – what could _you_ possibly gain, Wade."

A smart-ass slippery bastard. He always knows how to turn the conversation in the right direction.

“Let me guess, here comes one of your typical lectures about how I can be something bigger, how I can save the world, ‘reveal my true potential’, blah blah blah, other crap from those hippie-dippie books on personal growth. When will you get bored repeating it  over and over?”

Nate stares at him for a uncomfortable amount of time, intently and _knowingly_. Wade holds his gaze the whole time out of pure stubbornness.

"Wade, I will repeat this as many times as it takes until you believe it. You _can_ be something more. You _can_ do good.”

"Under your careful guidance, I presume."

“Honestly? I don’t see the reason why the hell not.”

Wade turns away and squints his eyes so tightly that bursts of red and black start to float under his eyelids. Of course Nate doesn’t see it. _Of course_ Nate thinks he knows _better_.

But what really makes Wade so bitter is the simple fact that some terrible, terrible part of him _wants_ to agree. He wants to be here, wants to help Nate in saving the fucking world, wants to go on missions under his command, wants Nate to _need_ him, wants it so desperately that probably even a thousand years from now this stupid desire will still be here, pulling him down, pushing him right to Nate, demanding he fight for him, with him, in his name. And this tiny part of him scares the shit out of Wade, to be honest. 

He has to stop this, before he has gone too far to ever return. He _has_ to make his own decisions. He has to flee, he has to run, the further the better.

Metal fingers are gently and steadily pulling him by the shoulder, forcing him to turn back.

 

(“Oh, oh, I know this story! Then they kiss, big romantic fireworks explode in the background, someone turns on a sweet Christina Perry song, the screen goes dark, and then the lovers wake up in the same bed the next morning? And they live happily ever after, right?”

This is Deadpool #3: Wade can’t pinpoint the moment when the new personality appeared. You can’t expect him to follow all the updates around here.

He shakes his head, remembering the Civil War. And the divorce. Their stupid fucking divorce.

He grins mirthlessly and wryly.

“No,” he says. “ _Not really_.”)

 

***

Memories and reality are now blurring together in one jagged sequence of images. He isn’t sure whether what he sees and feels is actually happening. He's not sure if that matters. What difference would it make, anyway?

Stryfe clenches his fist, telekinetically crushing  Wade's bones into dust and gutting him like a fish. Rips out the joints and tears apart his muscles. It’s probably some kind of punishment; Wade doesn’t remember what for. Maybe it’s just for his boss being in a bad mood for no particular reason.

When he comes to his senses, his body seems relatively whole again. Boss probably somehow accelerated his regeneration. Or maybe nothing was really broken, all of it being nothing more than a mere illusion. Wade doesn’t really care. The pain has becomes quieter as time passes, when most of his nerves are dying along with his body. To be honest, he’s glad that he can still feel _anything at all_ other than his own neverending slow death.

What is left of the resistance – a handful of people, trying to hide from Stryfe’s iron hold – die quickly from his hand. Or maybe not: it doesn’t matter anymore. He feels someone’s blood covering his face.

Soon there are no mutants left and no humans either. Stryfe’s “empire” consists of the emptiness of the abandoned city and silent robot troops. No one screams in the streets out there when the acid rains come, no one is caught by surprise by the poisonous drops from the sky.

The foul aurora borealis energy field shimmers above the city: a trap meant for the occasional time-travelers who come to this era. It seems that Stryfe is waiting for someone specific to arrive. Wade doesn’t ask, though. He fears and hopes too much to hear an answer.

One day Wade tries to kill the girl in the basement, whose power’s been feeding the dome. He doesn’t know why he does it. Not that he really needs a reason.

In response, Stryfe shows him _very_ thoroughly why exactly this decision of his was a bad one. After that Wade doesn’t wake up for a blessed three days – more or less, it's hard to really keep count.

No one is watching him. No one is holding him there. Wade goes to the city border and looks at the wasteland lying ahead of him. Nothing. There's _nothing_ there, no matter how far he might go, he knows that. And – sure, no evil psycho dictator will be there to boss him around in the wasteland, but that also means that he’ll be left _alone_. Again. And Stryfe probably won’t even look for him, will he?

Deadpool # 2 and Deadpool # 3 destroy each other in a fight. Mutual annihilation, huh. Wade wakes up at the Citadel, right next to Stryfe's room – and realizes suddenly that he must have came back. Of his own will, that’s it. He tells himself that he simply didn’t have a choice, knowing very well it’s not entirely true.

Later he tries to blow his brains out.

And wakes up right in the throne room, lying with his cheek on somebody's lap. Metal hands – familiar and unfamiliar at the same time – are stroking him patronizingly through the mask. He feels even dizzier than usual.

"Did you really think you could die without my permission?"

This voice – Wade knows it. He wants nothing more than to close his eyes and fall asleep again. This voice is from the past, which now also seems like a blurred old dream; it belongs to someone who he misses a lot for some reason. To someone who knew him better than he knew himself. To someone who chose to so stupidly believe in him back in the days before.

"Nate," he says, his own voice flat and hollow. "I'm so fucking tired. Your future totally sucks.”

Hands freeze for a moment. Then continue stroking his head and his neck with their cold fingers. He remembers vaguely that there should be only one metal hand, not two, and T.O. mesh in his his memories used to be much warmer – but that’s unimportant. He wants to sleep so badly. Nate is _here_ , right here with him. That's all that matters.

"Let me into your mind," the same silky voice offers smoothly. "I need to establish a mental connection. It will be less painful for you if you just let me.”

At any other time, in any other circumstances, Wade would’ve have been outraged by the offer. At any other time Wade wouldn’t have let anyone inside his mind, not even Nate. His mind is his own and nobody else’s.

But after all, eight hundred years – is a freaking _lot_ of time.

And he is so tired of being alone. Maybe this way Nate will stay with him a little longer.

So he says:

“Sure.”

Turning his head slightly, he sees his master’s lips curling into a pleased smile – as if his dog has finally learned to bring him slippers and a fresh newspaper in the morning.

 

***

_Cable is here._

The news must have come from Bishop. Or, perhaps, Stryfe finds out on his own.

What matters is that Wade _hears_ the message. That alone is enough to draw his attention.

Stryfe casually gestures for him to come closer. 

“It seems that he’s not alone, Wilson. Go find out what company my... dear brother … has brought here.”

And Wade obeys, because he's also curious, if he’s honest. Something’s happening. Something that has not happened for a very long time.

He wonders if Cable’s really here. Is he still alive, though? Is he... still the same?

He finds X-Force quickly.

Domino is still as hot and rational as he remembers. Good old Logan is still as unfriendly and grumpy too. His claws in his head – literally in his head – make him feel funny. There are also some people who Wade doesn’t know yet.

Well, who would have guessed, huh? How little it takes for the things to be fun  again. Or is it just him who’s not so picky?

Stryfe orders him: _Kill them all_.

Wade replies: _Yeah, boss, sure. No problem. I’ll just try to find out first why they’re here, okie-dokie?_

It's so fucking weird to talk to real living people again – people who are not Stryfe or himself. Wade smiles and runs after them, nearly skipping.

Domino asks him some questions. Clever, clever girl. Always so suspicious. Wade really wants to kiss her, just because she exists. Dammit, right now he would kiss even Logan – but it wouldn’t end well, what a pity.

It seems that they’re looking for Cable. And for the baby. Does Cable have a baby? Wade recalls their meeting in Alaska, when he and Nate said their goodbyes all those centuries ago: oh, right, there _was_ a baby. A mission-baby. A magnet-for-bad-guys-baby. Yeah.

Dom asks him: “Are you okay, Wilson?”

And Wade laughs at that, because:

“Me? Baby, I'm always okay! I'm more than okay, really! But your concern is so touching – hell, Dom, I had no idea you liked me so much in the first place! Why’d you never say so? And why did you reject me that one time, baby? Nah, it’s fine, I forgive you. Wade Wilson here doesn’t hold grudges for anyone. We can start all over. Right here. Right now. Field romance, just for us, my love, eh? Let's dance together to the glorious beat of passion and - ”

"Never mind," Dom rolls her eyes. "Forget I asked."

Then Logan comes back to the group. With Cable.

And with the child, who’s no longer a baby; there’s a red-headed little girl who must be around seven or eight. Hope, Cable calls her. _Hope._ Only Nathan Christopher Charles Gesundheit Summers would give the future mutant messiah a name like that, really. However, Wade isn’t looking at her at that moment. He’s busy staring at Nate – eagerly, carefully, longingly. This time there’s not even the slightest doubt about who is it he’s seeing.

He would have pounced and clung to his neck  – eight hundred years, as you may know, usually don’t have a good effect on someone’s dignity – but Nate just frowns, gives him a single glare, and turns away to the others. Wade's mouth is already blabbering some kind of stupid joke to welcome him back; to be honest, his brain can barely register the words he’s saying. Not that anyone here is listening, anyway. 

Stryfe says something impatiently through their mental connection. Wade just ignores him. He’s busy trying very hard not to feel so damn happy.

And so completely, unexpectedly _alive_.

( _How the mightiest have fallen_ , says one of the voices inside his head. Not Stryfe’s voice, though. Probably his own. _He abandoned you, remember?_ _He abandoned you, and went on his mission to the future, and didn’t ask you to go with him. And all those dumb things he did back then, even **before**. Look at him – the bastard doesn’t even glance in your direction, like you're no more than a flea or dirt on his huge, stupid boots. Imaginary Nate was better. At least he spoke to us, didn’t he? And he didn’t advise others to gut us and dump us. How many times have we saved the miserable life of this eternal fashion victim?_ )

Something warm bubbles inside him, and this time it's not even blood. Wade feels himself light as a feather. He doesn’t respond to the voices, because – because _it doesn’t matter_.

Because Nate is here. Alive. And real. And gloomy. And slightly worn out. All business-like, as usual. Focused. And so, so _familiar_.

The world will be alright, Wade thinks. If Nate is here, if Nate is alive – then everything will be fine from now on. Maybe he will be fine, too. Maybe he won’t even have to lie about it anymore. This is what Nate does, he comes and makes things better. Makes _Wade_ better. Always. Damned G.I. Jesus. Fucking holy Saviour in all his grace and shining.

In his memory (or in his fantasy, who cares) Nate touches his face gently – without the mask, already without the mask – and looks into his eyes, and his metal fingers are warm, and in his eyes there is... _something_. Some unreadable expression that slips from time to time through his defences. As if Nate wanted to tell him something. Something significant, and obvious, and stupid, and probably freaking awkward, too – so Wade pauses, waiting, unsure what to do. He considers running, until it's too late, he considers stabbing Nate or... Or not. But Nate never says anything. So Wade doesn’t say it either. Everything is fine. They're buddies, not some touchy-feely girls, right? They’re best friends. No homo. Nothing like that. Probably nothing.

Domino looks at him with growing suspicion, but, apparently, decides not to comment on his facial expression.

 

In the Citadel, Wade tells Dom about Stryfe and the girl in the basement.

In the Citadel, Wade shoots Stryfe from the back with the biggest gun he could find, and his new-ex-whatever boss falls into the abyss. And who on Earth said that clones happen to be so similar after all?

In the Citadel, Stryfe returns from the abyss, merciless and vengeful, and without so much as a warning tears Wade in half. Doesn’t even scold him for his betrayal, doesn’t bother to teach him a lesson. Doesn’t even waste time on his usual Evil Speeches – well, almost doesn’t, surely. Nate must have pissed him off really bad.

In the Citadel, Wade seems to be dying for good, for one last time, finally.

He's not sure. One can never know for sure with the healing factor.

Wade lies on the floor, and no one bothers to check his pulse – or whatever else he has instead of it. No one says they might have to take him with them. No one is even looking.

He’s looking at Nate, who is turning away – again. Eight hundred years is a very long time, he thinks. He must have imagined their whole friendship. He must have still been dreaming.

He wants to say something so desperately – something he should have said earlier, almost a thousand years ago, back on Providence. On one of those evenings when he could just crash in Nate's apartment, lie down on his couch and talk about nothing in particular, distracting the all-mighty Savior from all the oh-so-important and pressing matters there.

To say something equally Important and Pressing. Like… like _Nate is such a dumbass who sometimes doesn’t see what’s lying right in front of him_   _._

Nate suddenly turns around and gives him one last look. He seems to be considering something for a moment. He seems to be _remembering_.

But then the mission calls him, and he leaves, as expected. Of course. The mission always calls him away, no matter what.

Wade closes his eyes. The words die in his throat before they’re born – for better.

The world will be just fine. It's not too late to fix it. Maybe Nate will make sure that none of this ever happens. Some day in the distant past, almost a thousand years ago, _everything would be fine_. For all of them. Even if it doesn’t last long enough to matter.

 

At that thought, Wade finally falls asleep.

 


End file.
